


Le Sacre du Printemps

by Mahoroba



Series: Avengers For Dinner [3]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Plot, Alcohol, But you love him anyway, Cannonball - Freeform, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Climbing in your windows, Clint Feels, Clint Has Issues, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint gets his ass handed to him, Clint is a hot mess, Clint is a lurker, Clint is surprisingly well rounded, Clint whump, Drunk folks behaving badly, F/M, How can you NOT like Earth Wind and Fire, It's officially a love triangle, Karaoke, Love Triangle, No Beta, Obscure-ish X-Men, Reader is Southern, Remy LeBeau is a shit, Sam Guthrie - Freeform, Shit on a shingle, Snatchin' your people up, So the drama, Southern Cooking, The Plot Thickens, Weird names for delicious food, Well that just escalated, X-men - Freeform, Yes there is a plot, earth wind and fire, gambit - Freeform, rogue - Freeform, southern food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7140410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mahoroba/pseuds/Mahoroba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Clint Barton tapping on your window, crouched on your microscopic patio."</p><p>In which Clint Barton makes an unexpected house call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Les Augures Printaniers

**Author's Note:**

> And so begins the 3rd part of "Avengers For Dinner." 
> 
> God, I have the worst writer's block for the ending part of this. Y'all pray for me. It's funny how I have like, future parts planned out to perfection and one part just has me snagged. Ugh.

When it rains, it pours.

Not even two weeks later to the day after your concert with Steve, you were sleeping in your bed when a noise stirred you awake. You opened your eyes, but lay still in bed, slowly reaching for your Louisville Slugger – an aluminum baseball bat you kept next to the bed. You’d never had to use it before, but as a woman living alone in New York, you couldn’t be too cautious. 

As the noise grew louder, you tightened your grip on the bat, and waited. And waited. And…waited. You’d think that if this person was going to rob you, they’d be quicker about it. And why did it sound like they were tapping at the window, instead of trying to open it themselves? The tapping turned into flat out repetitive knocking, far too obnoxious to ignore, and you threw back the blankets, preparing yourself to give a big swing with the bat – 

Only to find Clint Barton tapping on your window, crouched on your microscopic patio. In the darkness, he was little more than a silhouette, but the hunch in his shoulders  and the bow slung across them could leave no doubt as to who it was. 

“Clint, you’re about as crazy as a shit house rat! Get your ass in here, right now!” You opened the window, and stepped back to let him in. 

“Have I ever told you that your accent is sexy? Because it is,” he groaned as he squeezed through the open window. It wasn’t that he was particularly a big man; it’s just that the window, like the rest of the studio, was small. Even you had to say a Hail Mary whenever you went in and out of it to get onto the patio. Knocking over a stack of books you had piled under the window and a house plant, he swore softly. “Sorry, sorry…” 

“No big.” You leaned over, helping him squeeze through. Wow, those arms. Those shoulders. Noooicceee. Helping him to stand, you quickly moved the books out of the way, righted the flower pot, and reached over to turn on the light. The room was filled with a warm glow. 

You gasped – Clint was beat to hell. He had the making of a massive black eye, his lip was busted, dried blood was crusted under his nose, and his arms were covered in scrapes and bruises. 

“Did you get in a fight with a Sasquatch? What in the ever lovin’ hell, Barton? Go, sit!” You shooed him to your bed as you paced off, barefoot, to your tiny, tiny little bathroom. 

“Comes with being an Avenger, and I’m pretty sure there are no Sasquatches in New York.”

“Don’t try and tell me what can and can’t happen in this cattywampus city. You’d better be sitting!” you shouted back from the bathroom.

You could hear him groaning as he settled onto the bed, the frame squeaking. When you came back with your first aid kit, he was in the process of taking off his quiver, setting it down with a thunk. After it, his arm guards followed, then, much to your delighted surprise, his shirt. 

“Barton, I ain’t in no way prepared to help you with all of this foolishness,” you groused, giving him a slow once over. He’d shocked the proper right out of your language, and your drawl was out in full force. He winced in pain as he rolled his shoulders back. Without his shirt on, his chest was a collection of bruises, some fresh violet, others older and yellowing. You weren’t a doctor. You weren’t even CPR certified; how were you supposed to help out with this?

He pointed to a particularly –okay, how the hell had you missed THAT- nasty gash down his right side. “Could you?” he asked, his eyes darting to the wound and then back up to you.

Your tongue was thick in your mouth as you nodded dumbly, and sitting next to him, you started tending to the gash. “I’m warning you right now, I am in no way any kind of trained for this, so if your arm falls off, you can’t sue, okay?”

His response was a dry laugh. 

Luckily enough for the both of you, it wasn’t deep, and looked way worse than it actually was. Once you cleaned the blood off, cleaned the cut, and slathered ointment on it, Clint’s breathing had fallen into an easy cadence, and you could see flickers of his aura shifting in front of you. Motherdammit; you were losing control. As you took a deep breath and forced yourself out of the aurora of his emotions, you were relieved to see a warm orange in the midst of them all; he was comfortable around you. Inexplicably, it seemed, he always had been. You and Clint – definitely bros for life. 

Wrapping a long strip of gauze (which you’d originally laughed at when you saw it in the first aid kit; who would ever use a whole strip of gauze? The worst thing you’d done was burn your fingers on a baking pan and that was why you had aloe growing in your microscopic kitchen and patio) around his side, you lightly secured it. “That’s about the best I can do with what I got,” you said, surprised to hear that you were calming down enough for your drawl to back off just a bit. “You’re gonna need a real good lookin’ at once you get back to the Tower.”

He nodded, his gaze distant. “I couldn’t make it back to the Tower. I remembered seeing your address, and it was the closest place. I’m sorry, (your name). I know you’re not set up for this.”  His tone was flat - and, unable to resist, you snuck a quick peek at his aura, your eyes dully lighting up as you did a quick scan. He was feeling dejected – useless. There was more, but you’d already dug enough without his permission. And, to be fair, anyone that was particularly perceptive could have picked up how the archer was feeling by the slump of his shoulders and the stiff way that he moved. 

“…Well, glad I could be of service…What time is it, anyway?” You gingerly sat down on the bed next to him. 

With great effort, he shrugged. “No idea.”

You stole a glance at your bedside clock. 2 AM. Well. Seemed like sleep was going to be the last thing on the agenda for the night. “Take off your boots,” you suddenly said, looking at Clint.

“What?” He was confused, but still lost in whatever was going through his head.

“I said, ‘take off your boots.’ Might as well get comfortable; I got a feeling you’re gonna be here a minute, yeah?”

Without another word, the smart-mouthed archer leaned over and began untying his laces. His boots fell to the floor. He grumbled as he laid down in your bed, his arms sprawled out to either side.

By the time you got back to your “bedroom” from the bathroom, Clint was snoring.


	2. Jeu du Rapt

The smell of fresh coffee jerked you awake, and you rubbed the trail of slobber from the side of your face. You didn’t even remember falling asleep in the papasan, -let alone actually sitting down in it - but there you were, and sore as all get out because of it. Stretching, your shoulders popped in protest.

“I, uh, made some coffee,” Clint was standing over you, still shirtless, sipping from a mug that stated, “Talk Shit, Get Hit.” In his other hand, he held out another mug that was covered in Shakespearean insults. “I didn’t know if you drank it or not, but I saw the maker, and figured I might as well.”

Taking the Shakespeare mug from him, you took a small sip. It was black, bitter as mud, and you almost gagged, but choked it down. That first bite was enough to bring you all the way to the land of the living. “What time is it?” You squinted – it looked like early day by the way the sun looked through the patio. Thankfully, with it being Saturday, you had nowhere crucial that you needed to be.

“Little past 7,” he said, moving to sit on the end of the bed. Not like there were many other places to sit. “I gotta apologize again,” he said, after a while, the coffee mug in front of his face. He was embarrassed; he couldn’t meet your eyes. “Coming here wasn’t a good idea. I’m not really full of those.”

“You’re here; you’re safe. Let’s be thankful for that. I can start to hissing and pissing about it later.” You stretched. Your body was still tired, and grouchy at you for sleeping in the papasan instead of the actual bed. The papasan lurched forward with a horrific creak of wood, and you struggled to hold onto your coffee as you leaned forward with it. 

“Thanks, (your name).” And he was quiet, sipping his coffee and staring out of the window into the depths of the dawn. 

Standing up, you went to the kitchen, and fixed your coffee the way that you liked it. With a mighty yawn, you opened the fridge door, and took stock of what all you had. You’d gone shopping earlier in the week, as you had a hankering for a certain dish. As the week went on, though, you hadn’t had the time to make it. Now seemed the perfect time.

“…You in a hurry to get somewhere in particular?” 

He looked up at you. His left eye was dark purple and nearly swollen shut. Yikes. You should’ve made him put something on that last night. “Just to the Tower to report. Why?”

“You eat last night?”

The smile on his face was wide, even through the wince as the expression further split his lip. “I did, but I’m getting hungry now.”

“Well, then, you can’t leave here without eating. Southern law. Everybody gets fed when they come to my house.”

++++++++++++

Flour. Eggs. Buttermilk. Butter. Sugar. Salt. Baking powder.  Milk. 

You had the counter prepped; all you needed was music. Clint had made himself comfortable on the bed, still shirtless, leaning back against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him, oddly prim as he had them crossed at the ankles. He seemed relaxed – still haunted by whatever (and you weren’t sneaking any more peeks; instead, you were  letting his comfort with you wash over you)- but relaxed. 

Walking next to the bed, you turned on your iPod. You had a combination clock / iPod charger, and after skimming through your massive music collection, you settled on Earth, Wind, and Fire. It was impossible to be in a bad mood listening to them. And as tempting as it was to listen to Stevie Wonder, you didn’t want to start the morning off thinking about Steve. Not that thinking about Steve was a **_bad_** thing, but here was Clint, your bro for life. You owed him your undivided attention. Getting back into the kitchen, you started pouring the flour into a bowl. 

_Love, forever unfolds magical moments together_  
_and the fire to ignite melodies tonight_  
_Birds can only sing the song we write_  
_Harmonies in tune that reflect the moon_  
_Sparkle you're so rare and lovely in my sight_

“You know, you got Steve hooked on Stevie Wonder. Whenever the guy’s got any downtime, that’s pretty much all he listens to. Well, that and big band music from his day. He was almost skipping after he heard about that concert. After he came back, he talked our ears off about it. Y’know, as far as Steve goes with being ‘chatty.’” Clint spoke suddenly, and you almost cut yourself with your knife. “Though Earth, Wind and Fire ain’t a bad way to start a morning.” 

“Jesus god, Clint, give a gal warning when you’re gonna start talkin’, lord have mercy,” you sighed, and started cutting the butter again. You’d gotten so used to just hearing the music while you were getting started that you’d forgotten, just that quick, that Clint was still there.

He laughed, and stiffly stood up, limping to the kitchen. He held his hands out in front of him in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t come after me with the spoon; I’m just in here to get more coffee. I wouldn’t dream of helping you,” and he reached past you for the coffee pot. By the stretch of the smirk on his face, he was feeling better. Or at least feeling well enough to pull off the façade of wellness. 

Your curiosity got the better of you, and you grinned, as you started kneading the butter into the flour. “Steve tell you about that?”

“Nah – Steve would never kiss and tell. After that ass Tony ate all of the leftovers, he kept asking Steve about what happened, and then claimed that JARVIS had it all recorded as surveillance, and if he didn’t tell Tony, he was going to have JARVIS play the whole night on loop, endlessly, throughout the Tower. Well, Steve talked really quick after that. Seems to me that everyone behaved themselves,” and he gave you a rakish waggle of his eyebrows. 

“God, y’all were goin’ at it. I heard you and Tony squabbling over the phone when Steve called a few days later.”

“Yeah, well! No one expected you to make enough to feed all of us,” Clint leaned against the sink, facing you as you worked on the counter across from him, “But I figure, behind **my** cans of Mountain Dew, **my** food. Tony didn’t see it that way. I blew up one of his chairs in his shop. Trick arrow.”

“Bless your heart.” You shook your head, adding buttermilk to the flour until it became more of a paste. There was something about kneading biscuit dough that was one of the most soothing things in the world to you. Didn’t matter what kind of day you had, it all vanished as you worked the dough. 

“Whatcha makin, anyway?” He looked at you, brows raised, over his cup.

“Shit on a shingle.”

Clint nearly spat his coffee out. “What?”

You laughed. “Shit. On. A. Shingle.”

“You are not making me actual shit, (your name).”

“You’d  probably eat it anyway. Steve told me about your bag of marshmallows.”

“Okay, well, maybe if it was flavorful shit and I was starving. Seriously, though, whatcha makin’? Some kind of bread?” He pointed at your kneading hands. “And what’s a movie without something sweet?”

“Biscuits and sausage gravy. I had an uncle that called it ‘shit on a shingle.’ Sorta stuck,” you said, lifting your hands from the dough to flex your fingers before delving back in. “I can’t say I’m a huge fan, but man, when I get a hankering for it, I have to have it. And it’s one of those things I just can’t order; I have to make it or I won’t touch it. Always something wrong with it when you get it from a restaurant. And not everyone wants to send themselves into a sugar coma while they’re watchin’ a movie. Air popped popcorn’ll do you just fine. Though I sneak all sorts of stuff into the movie theaters– and you better not tell a soul,” you grinned at him. Your drawl was back – but rather than make an appearance due to your being scared as all get out, it was there because you were relaxed. Talking to Clint was like talking to an old friend. 

“Your secret is safe with me. But who doesn’t sneak food in?”

“Good, law abiding folks, I suppose. Most audacious thing we snuck in was a platter of hot wings – me and Rogue. Can’t even remember what we were seeing. Those hot wings were so good, though. I even heard once Logan smuggled in a six pack of beers in.” 

Clint snickered. “That sounds pretty great – both hot wings, six pack, and biscuits,” and he clapped you on the shoulder, the heat of his hand leeching through your thin night shirt. “Is it all right if I shower?”

Your hands stilled in the dough. You did not need the mental image of naked Clint Barton in your head. Okay, maybe you didn’t need it, as it was detrimental to your current concentration, but it damn sure didn’t mean that you didn’t want it. Thinking about the water slipping down those wiry arms of his…you snapped back to reality as you felt the control over your power waver. Nope. Couldn’t have that happening. It’d be a short trip from just imagining Clint naked in front of you, water dripping from his nose onto his lips, to having it actually happen. You couldn’t do that. Not because you were letting your mind run wild. 

God, what was it about these guys? 

“As long as you keep what the Good Lord gave you out of my sight,” you chuckled, turning your attention back onto the dough in your hands. Overknead, and the biscuits wouldn’t be fluffy. It was getting to about that crucial point where you needed to stop. “Towels in the cabinet above the toilet.” 

“I owe you big,” he said, and, you noticed, he hadn’t moved his hand from your shoulder. He pressed closer to you for a moment, as if he was going to kiss the crown of your head, and then, perhaps thinking better of it, he backed off. As he turned away from you, his hand slid down your arm, breaking contact a little above your wrist, where your arms were caked with flour. That didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t have meant anything. Nope. You were not about to start reading into that friendly touch. 


	3. Rondes Printanières

By the time the water shut off, you’d washed your hands, and were stirring the gravy in the pot on the stove. The biscuits were in the oven – best to get them in before you started the gravy, as they took the longest time to bake. Still, Clint had taken a long shower; you were a little worried that the water heater would cut out before he was done. 

The bathroom door opened in a cloud of steam, and Clint came out, towel wrapped around his waist. 

_Hellfire and Damnation._

You should have done a load of towels in your laundry, because you were quite certain that the towel Clint had around his waist was not a bath towel, but a hand towel. It was tinier than it had a right to be and bright pink. The look on your face must’ve said it all, because he looked at you with a shrug – well, he shrugged the best he could, holding the towel in place. “I used up all the big towels. Cut started bleeding again and I didn’t want to get blood all over the place. Don’t suppose you have any spare clothes?”

“You started bleeding again?!” You quickly turned down the heat on the gravy, banging the spoon you were using to stir it against the rim of the pot to knock off the excess before you were in front of him in two strides. Immediately, you knelt beside him, lifting his arm to take a look at his side. 

“Dealing with you is like tryin’ to piss up a rope,” you murmured, taking a good look at the cut. It looked like it had started bleeding again, but between then and now, Clint had stopped it. Maybe it was deeper than you thought. And the gauze you used last night was all of the gauze you had in the apartment. 

 _Here’s hopin’ I got enough band-aids for this,_ you thought as you ushered him onto the bed. He flopped down, and the towel fluttered. You weren’t sure whose hands moved faster to replace it – yours or his. Either way, it ended up with your hand on his, and his hand over his crotch. 

“Well, there, darlin’, I like you, but I barely know you,” he gave you a wink, and gently moved your hand to rest next to his thigh. It was only when you wiggled his fingers under his hand that he moved it from on top of yours.

“It ain’t even like that, Barton.” You tried to ignore the thin curl of purple desire that you saw that began to mingle into the rest of his emotional state. It wasn’t that you MEANT to look; just being this close to him, wet and naked, well, your control slipped. Just a little. And you got it back under wraps just as quick.

“Well, why not?” and he pouted, before the express split into a smirk. 

“Now you’re sounding like Stark,” you rolled your eyes, and went to go get your first aid kit. In the bathroom, you couldn’t help but to smile; Clint, far from being a slob, had hung up each towel  he’d used to dry himself off, and the one that he apparently used to stop himself from bleeding was soaking in the sink in cold water. _Clint Barton, Clint Barton_ , you thought to yourself, as you came back out, first aid kit in hand. 

He was flopped down on his stomach on your bed, little towel covering his butt as he was thumbing through your iPod library, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth. Finding what he was looking for, he deftly pushed the button, and let his torso drop on the bed, resting his head on his hands. The somewhat mournful bassoon of Igor Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring” slipped from the iPod, and you almost dropped the kit in your surprise.

 “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a fan of Stravinsky.” You settled on the bed next to him, making sure the towel stayed over his butt – though you wanted to flip it off and take a nice squeeze. 

“Hey, just because I’m from Iowa doesn’t make me a hayseed. I even read real books.” His eyes were closed, but you could see the corner of a smile from his folded arms. “I first heard this from that Disney movie, _Fantasia_. You know, the scene with the dinosaurs? I thought it was insane.”

“And how long ago was this?” You opened the kit, took a look at his cut, and did a mental tally of how many band-aids you had. 

“Last month.”

You sputtered, trying to hold in your laughter, and only succeeded in hurting yourself before you started cackling. “Get outta here with that. No way.”

“Yes way. Steve’s got a thing for Disney movies. He missed _Fantasia_ , apparently. I guess with all of the war fervor going on at the time. Tony’s got us doing movie nights to get Steve caught up on what he missed, and Natasha was the one that suggested it. I thought it was going to be boring as hell, but it’s an interesting flick. I really liked how ‘off’ the music was. It’s calming but keeps you on edge.”

Though “calming” was the last word you’d ever use to describe Stravinsky (well, maybe Clint had a point; there’s  just something about an orchestra that soothes the nerves), you had to agree with the rest of Clint’s assessment. “Yeah, _Fantasia_ is a pretty good one – pretty ballsy, truth be told.” You sat back a little. “Roll over so I can get this cut. And don’t be cute and move that towel in a way that makes me want to blind myself.”

“Okay, you need to stop. There is no way I am that unattractive,” he huffed as he slowly rolled to his side. That was good; he didn’t seem to be grimacing as much as he moved, keeping the towel across his junk. “Though I guess I’m small potatoes compared to Steve,” and he looked back at you, with that rapidly losing its cuteness smirk. “ ‘Draw me like one of your French girls’,” he coquettishly purred, lifting his arms over his head. You resisted the urge to smack him. 

“Don’t even, Barton. You’re cute too. If I squint.” Rubbing ointment on the cut lightly, you unwrapped the first band-aid of many, and gently pressed it over the wound. 

“Then maybe you should squint all the time.” His eyes were closed again, his arms now relaxed overhead. 

Was he flirting with you?

You weren’t about to go there. Not with biscuits in the oven, gravy on the stove, and trying to figure out what in the hell you had for him to wear. 

 

++++++++++++++

 

About 70 Mickey Mouse band-aids later, Clint was patched up (or as “patched up” as he could be, with about 70 Mickey Mouse band-aids on him), and comfy  in a fluffy, flower print robe, sitting at your makeshift table of 2x4s precariously laid on top of plastic milk crates. One of these days you were actually going to nail them together - part of that whole, ‘upcycling’ trend you were all about. 

You had to admit, after the shower, he didn’t look so much like something Death brought in his suitcase. 

Despite the ominous cacophony of Stravinsky in the background, he seemed downright jolly on his umpteenth cup of coffee, and waiting for you to bring the biscuits out. “I like your place,” he was looking around now, as if finally registering where he was at. “Totally dig the beaded curtains and scarves. Looks like the inside of a circus tent.”

“I don’t know if I should be insulted by that or not.” He did have a point – to serve as separations from one side of the studio to the other, you’d hung up beaded curtains. The only room in the place that had an actual door was the bathroom. A rainbow beaded curtain separated your bedroom from your living/dining room, and another one separated the  kitchen from the rest of the room. Basically, when you walked in, you were in the living/dining room, and past that was your “bedroom” – your bed next to the window in front of the patio / fire escape. Probably wasn’t the best place to mark off as a bedroom, but it was either that or have people walk in directly into your bedroom, and that wasn’t going to happen. 

Over the light fixtures and windows, you’d draped sheer patterned fabric you’d picked up at a vintage shop. You were hoping for the place to pull together in more of a “hippie-chic” fashion, and not “crazy squatter.” 

“I think it’s great. It feels lived in. The pictures and posters help. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone that took so many pictures. Maybe Tony – but that doesn’t count.”

“You haven’t met Jubilation Lee,” you said, fixing the plates. Clint was getting around better, but he was favoring that side enough that you wanted him to stay put. Also, he was sort of held together by Mickey Mouse band-aids. “She takes pictures about every five seconds. Thousands in a day. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have like two thirds of the photos up there as I do.” 

The  pictures you had on the wall were pretty much all of you and various folks at the school – Jean and Ororo with ice cream, shopping with Kitty and Jubilee, about a million selfies of Jubliee with various faculty, including yourself, you and Rogue doing your nails with facials on, playing poker with Remy, that one time you and Bobby got into it and he froze you to your chair, and that time you retaliated by locking him out of his room in his underwear, you stealing a kiss from a very gruff Logan in a Santa hat under the mistletoe. That had been your first Christmas at the school. 

“Figured as much. I saw the one of you as a kid.” His voice was light, but there was a note of seriousness there. You stopped ladling gravy onto the open-faced biscuits. He would find the most understated photo. While the ones of you and the people at the school were neatly framed, the one of you as a kid wasn’t - it was a moldering polaroid, shoved into the corner of a cork board that was covered in old movie and theater tickets, to do-lists, and other odds and ends.

“Yeah?” You tried to force a note of carelessness in your voice. “I was an ugly kid, right?”

“You said it, not me.” And the momentarily tension was gone. You liked Clint, you felt comfortable around him, but not that comfortable. Your biological family was a loaded issue. “I would’ve thrown rocks at you,” he added, in a tone that said, _we’re still cool, right_?

_Oh, Clint._

“And I would’ve beaten the tar outta you once I caught ya,” you walked into the living room, plates in hand, and set them down on the “table” with a minor flourish. “World’s finest shit on a shingle. Enjoy!” 

Clint leaned over the plate, inhaling deeply. He gave you a _I can’t believe this is happening to me_ look, and promptly tucked in. With a grin, you sat down across from him, and started eating.

++++++++++++++

Between the two of you, you ate the entire tray of biscuits and the whole pot of gravy. You’d eaten so much that you felt like your eyes were floating in your skull, and Clint looked like he’d gained five pounds. 

“I just wanna sleep forever,” he groaned in contentment, laying down on the floor next to the table. “That was so good. I gotta come by your window every night.”

“First off, that’s creepy, and second off, even Southerners don’t like repeat uninvited guests. Don’t be that guy that shows up to the cook out with a bag of ice.”

“Ice is valuable at cook outs.”

“You know what I mean.”

It was hard to resist the urge to lay down on the floor with him, but you had a kitchen to clean. As you were struggling to your feet, you heard an impertinent buzzing.

 “Ugghhh.” He was fussing as he struggled to get to his hands and knees, making sure to keep the robe closed. “Lemme get that.” And, much to your amusement, Clint literally crawled across the floor to his discarded clothing, and fishing around in his pants, pulled out a small earpiece. Looping the earpiece round his ear, he tapped on it. 

“Yeah, ‘Tasha. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, they got the drop on me. I ended up crashing at (your name’s) place – she was on the way. I didn’t have enough steam to get me to the Tower.” He winced in response to whatever Natasha was saying; you couldn’t hear that much. And you were trying hard as the dickens not to be nosey – time to get up and do those dishes, yessir!

“No, no, she’s fine. I wasn’t followed. Even if I was, she probably would’ve knocked the hell outta them with this baseball bat….I just finished. She made shit on a shingle.” He waved frantically, getting your attention, his face gleeful, as he pointed to the earpiece. Apparently Natasha was surprised by the name of the dish – that was saying something. “ ‘Tasha, it was delicious. Oh so good. I’d eat her shit on a shingle any day.”

Okay, he was having way too much fun with that name. Shaking your head, you continued to wash the dishes.

“Someone bring me some clothes, if you guys are coming here? Wait, what do you mean you’re not? Come on!....Okay, okay. Okay. Give me a few more hours and I’ll be at the Tower. Okay. Over.” He removed the earpiece, and flopped back onto the floor on his back. “Can you do me a solid? Wash my clothes? I’ll pay you back. I mean it.”

“I’ll add it to your tab.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mondays suck. Have some delightful fan fiction! 
> 
> Also - I thought I'd gauge you guys and see what you thought - I'm thinking about starting up a Tumblr to house fan fiction that I write, and to open up the grounds for requests / prompts (it's what all the cool kids are doing, right?). While I have this story plotted out for quite a while (it's surprising me, too, honestly), I thought it might be interesting to get more input. What say you lot?


	4. Cortège du sage: Le Sage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been following along musically, the chapter title is out of order. But that's because shit is about to get real :x

While you went down to the Laundromat, Clint kept himself busy. He finished the dishes, swept, cleaned the windows, reorganized your books, watered your plants, fixed that cabinet door that always managed to stick shut, and was in the process of nailing the 2x4s together when you came back in with his clothes (and you managed to wash all of those towels, too). To be frank, it was like coming home to a new place. Stravinsky was still playing. 

“Well, I’ll be dammned,” you gaped, as you set down the laundry on the bed. “Clint, don’t tell me you did all this?”

“Sooo, we good on the tab? At least even for the food, right?” He looked charming, more focused on lining up the boards just so before he started hammering again. 

If that’s how he was going to play, you’d be more than happy than to join the game. “For the food and food alone, Barton. You still owe me for laundry, first aid, and safe haven.”

“I think ‘first aid’ is negotiable – even I know how to work a band-aid.”

“Yeah, but yours probably aren’t even Mickey.” 

“ _Blue’s Clues_ ,” and with a final bang, he rattled the boards on the table. They didn’t budge. “Maybe I’ll get you a real table.”

“Don’t talk shit about my table.” 

“Well, it’s a table now,” he said, standing up. He was still in that robe. Grabbing the stack of clothes from the bed, he walked past you to the bathroom. “And a table you will have fond memories of,” he added with a leer as he ducked into the bathroom.

Bros for life.

 

+++++++++

 

The next day (you slept in for real this time), there was a knock at your door. Curious, you marked the place in the book you were reading, and answered it. 

Standing in front of you was a delivery woman, with a stuffed Blue from _Blue’s Clues._

_Oh, that shit._

“You (your name)?”

“Yeah.”

“Sign here,” and she held out an electronic pad. Scribbling across it, the delivery woman took a look at the signature, gave you a smile and a wave, and was gone. There was a note pinned to one of the ears. Opening it, you smiled.

_This doesn’t count towards the tab. Just a general thank you._

_Barton_

_P.S. I took one of your books. Because I read real gud. Guess which one it was._

 

Clint Barton, Clint Barton.


	5. Jeux des cités rivales - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have two updates. IT'S FRIDAY. And also wee baby updates.

The light. 

 

It wasn’t just that it was light - it was that it was cutting past your closed eyelids, deep into your skull, and carving burning lines into your gray matter. As miserable as you felt, it was about to get worse - you opened your eyes.

 

And instantly regretted it.

 

You snarled in pain, rapidly closing your eyelids again. Your head was pounding, your mouth tasted disgusting, and everything on the planet was currently working against you. With a low groan, you curled up and rolled over to your side. Everything hurt.

 

Where were you, anyway?

 

Slowly, you willed your eyes open a crack. Dark violet. You were surrounded by…dark violet. Sheets? Yes, sheets. You reached out; ran your hand across them. They didn’t feel like your sheets. You didn’t remember buying any sheets this color. They didn’t smell like your sheets - these smelled like…manly body odor (not horrible), old food, and some notes of a cologne or aftershave that while it wasn’t horrible, definitely wasn’t anything you were familiar with.

 

_Oh Lord._

 

You rolled over again to your opposite side - and came face to face with another body. And not just any body, but a very male shirtless torso. 

 

_Oh no. Oh noooooo._

 

You went from being “vaguely awake” to “wide the fuck awake” and tried to put some distance between yourself and this new torso. The torso made a muffled sound, and curled into the bed more.

 

You instantly realized your sudden scramble was a mistake - the room spun, your stomach buckled violently, and you rolled out of the bed, fell onto the floor, and crawled your way to what you hoped was the nearest bathroom. You were in luck - it was (tile never lies)! And the toilet seat was already up.

 

After a thorough prayer to the Porcelain God, you inelegantly wiped the back of your hand with your mouth. 

 

_What in the hell happened last night?_

 

You sat, forehead on your folded arm on the cold rim of the toilet, struggling to kick start your brain. It was only when you (the struggle was real) slowly, painfully, sat up that you realized you weren’t wearing your clothes. But you WERE wearing clothes, and that was a good thing. You looked down. 

 

_Ohhhhhh nooooooooo._

 

The shirt you were in was big on you - big, but not huge. And it was black. And in the middle of it was a tell-tale purple arrow. 

 

_Sweet baby Jesus this is Clint’s shirt._

 

And apparently his boxers, too - you noted, looking down at your legs. You were wearing a pair of men’s boxers - light purple with black spots. And…you totally couldn’t tell if you still had your panties on under them.

 

_Oh my god what happened._

 

_Think. THINK, goddamn it!_

 

Your brain’s gears screeched as they started to move. Started to piece together what happened last night. Booze was involved (clearly) - but so was food…

 

_Oh._

 

_Ohhhhhhh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NO WHAT HAPPENED


	6. Jeux des cités rivales - Part II

The whole thing started during the planning of the Super Secret Southern Potluck.

Yes, the Super Secret Southern Potluck, where you and the other mutants from the south got together (in secret), brought home cooked food, and generally did country things that folks that were not from the south would give you six kinds of hell over. Drawls came back with a vengeance, stories were told, and copious amounts of drinking was done - and sometimes fireworks. Literal fireworks. Sam never did tell where he got all of those bottle rockets from.

The potlucks had three rules:

 

  1. Southern Law prevailed (this was a very mutable law),
  2. What happened at the potlucks stayed at the potlucks, (mostly gossip)
  3. You have to bring something (not a bag of ice)



Of course, within those three rules were variations, addendums, loopholes, and exceptions. 

 

You, Remy, Rouge, and Sam Guthrie were sitting in one of the empty classrooms. It’d been a while since everyone had a chance to get together, so after the rounds of hugs, backslapping, and cheek-kissing, you all were finally getting down to business. Sam sat at the teacher’s desk, sitting ramrod straight - the man was physically incapable of slouching.You, Rogue, and Remy sat in the student chairs. Remy sat in the middle of the two of you.You had your feet lazily propped up on the desk, Remy sat indolently back with his legs spread wide under the desk, and Rogue was relaxed, leaning forward, her chin in her hand, green eyes bright. 

 

In front of each of you was a shot glass of tequila, rimmed in salt and a wedge of lime next to it. 

 

“Ah’m down for this weekend,” said Rogue, “Ah’m lookin’ forward ta it. Been a minute! And Ah gotta hear about you makin’ time with the Avengers. Girl,” and she fixed those big green eyes on you, “You dangerous.”

 

Remy snorted, shaking his head. “Oui, Remy be around, yeah.” When his red on black eyes fell on you, a smirk on his lips, you ignored the instant smolder that started in your stomach. You’d been around Remy long enough for his charisma not to work on you, but it didn’t mean that being the recipient of one of his looks still didn’t do things to you. And this one was loaded with implicit sexual curiosity. Though he’d never say it (at least in front of Rogue), Remy appeared to be just as interested as she was in what was going on between you and the Avenger men. 

 

So were you, for that matter.

 

“Sounds good ‘ta me. This weekend it is,” said Sam. Sam, was, hands down, one of your favorite X-people (but you have a million favorites, so it may not mean all that much). He was a natural born peacekeeper (fitting, since he had like 50 million siblings) and leader, and while when he first showed up at the school he was a bit of a stubborn hardass, he’d mellowed out considerably in the time that you’d known him. It didn’t hurt that his grandma had all sorts of inventive recipes for moonshine - he’d made ‘drunk cherries’ for one potluck, and, to this day, there was a 24 hour gap in your memory from when you ate them. 

 

You **did** remember ending up in the woods behind the school howling or some such with Remy, Rogue, and Sam. How and why was still a mystery.

 

Before they could go for their shots of tequila, you spoke. “I have a proposition - I want Clint Barton to come to the next one.”

 

Six pairs of eyes gaped at you.

 

“Uh, sugah, why?”

 

“He ain’t from the South, is he?” Sam’s brows were raised. 

 

“Nah - nothin’ like that. He’s from Iowa.”

 

“ _Quoi_ , Iowa?!”

 

“Iowa. Y’all know how he barged in on me the other day, right? Well, we got to talkin’ and I think this would be good for him. I think he feels he’s the odd man out.” Which was putting it mildly. The thing about being a mutant was that in some way, everyone at the school had a “gift” - now, the practicality of said gift was debatable, but it was a gift nonetheless. Clint was just some guy. Granted, the best archer ever, but still, just some guy. Even Steve had the super soldier serum in his veins. 

 

“Man fights monsters with a bow an’ arra’,” Sam said, resting his arms behind his head. “That sort’a mess’ll give anyone a complex. Also means he got gumption. I say he’s good.”

 

“Just like that?” You couldn’t believe it - you thought Sam would be the hardest sell. Sam was the sort of unofficial leader of the potlucks, and the rest of you usually deferred to his sound judgement. He also hadn’t really paid attention to the Avengers, and so, to him, Clint would be more of a stranger. 

 

“I trust yer judgement, Sugarbee.”

 

You flushed a little at the nickname - if it came from anyone else, you'd be liable to knock their teeth out, but from Sam, it was a precious endearment. The fact that Sam trusted your judgement (which at times was questionable. Hey, you were human) was a lovely bonus. 

 

“Ah’m down for that,” crowed Rogue, lightly banging her fist against the desk she was sitting at. “Iowa don’t seem like it got a mess of city life. Middle of nowhere is the middle of nowhere, no matter where it’s at. But he’s gotta bring something. Thems the rules.”

 

“Th’ more the better, _vrai_?” Remy purred, spreading his legs even further under the desk, deliberately waving them open and shut. You resisted the urge to sneak a peak at his crotch - he was doing this to get a rise out of you. His body language screamed, _Oh, I know what’s going on with you and Clint._

 

As things would have it, Rogue had been watching Remy, and she leaned over and smacked him sharply in the shoulder. 

 

“Ow! _Mais!_ ‘Swrong wid you?!” Remy recoiled in his seat, before scooting the chair and the desk closer to you, pouting. Though Remy had a reputation for being smooth and cool, there was something about him and Rogue that had an affect on his personality. You figured it had something to do with their tempestuous past - you still needed to ask Rogue about that (you two _were_ overdue for a ladies’ night) -, but whatever it was, they acted like brother and sister more than previous lovers. Not that anyone was complaining about the shift in personality; everyone breathed a little easier now that the drama volume between the two had been dialed down.

 

“You know what you did.” Rogue shot him a pointed look. Then she looked at you and beamed. You and Rogue = BFFs forever. Though you honestly had a hard time with her when you were first introduced to her, you guys had finally bonded over bad relationships and even worse day-time TV. Now, the two of you were thick as thieves - and Maury Povich buddies. 

 

“All right, all right; quitcher fussin’,” Sam sighed, using his big brother voice. “The Super Secret Southern Potluck is scheduled fer this weekend. All rules apply.” He solemnly lifted his shot glass. You and the others followed suite, looking at each other and nodding.

 

“Agreed,” the three of you said in unison.

 

With that, Sam tossed back his shot - and the rest of you followed. Rogue grimaced, and you hissed as the liquor burned all the way down. Biting down on the slice of lime, Rogue looked at you with a megawatt smile in her eyes. 

 

+++++++++

 

Even though you told Clint not to be an uninvited guest on your patio, he had a tendency to drop by on a bi-weekly basis. Or at least what was shaping up to be a bi-weekly basis; you’d been counting on him to show up tonight. And, sure enough, you weren’t disappointed. 

 

You heard “Shave and a haircut” banged out against the window, and sure enough, there he was, dressed in his Avengers gear. You’d left the window half-way cracked, and he lifted it a bit higher with a creak. Squeezing in your room, he stood in front of the window, chin in hand, and sized it up. “I can fix that. Got any WD-40?”

 

“Can’t say that I do, not off the top of my head.” You were sitting in bed, the TV on, and a cup of tea on your makeshift nightstand of an upended produce box. 

 

“I bet bacon grease will take care of it in the meantime.”

 

“I’m not putting bacon grease on my window.”

 

“I know you have a jar of it in the fridge,” he smirked as he set down his bow and quiver, before sitting down in the bed next to you. “Isn’t that a rule?”

 

You rolled your eyes. He wasn’t wrong, but you weren’t about to put bacon grease on the window. You weren’t that desperate yet. 

 

“Did you eat?” 

 

He grinned, leaning down to unlace his boots. “Nope. Knew I was coming by here.”

 

“I never should’ve fed you the first time. Just like a stray cat.” He gave you a charmingly contrite grin. 

 

The first time Clint had dropped by about three weeks after you tended his wounds, you’d been in the process of eating leftovers - the school had a BBQ, and you took back as much as you could carry. Half-way through the week, you were beginning to wonder if you’d made a terrible mistake when your dreams featured brisket, and, like magic, Clint had showed up, and roundly helped you polish it off. Since then, whenever you cooked or brought food home, you made sure to make or bring a little bit extra.

 

And Clint, bless his precious heart, was nowhere near a cook, but about the third time he’d come over, he’d beat you there, and you walked in to find him holding one of your pans out of the window, rapidly waving smoke away from it. Before you could even open your mouth to start a blue streak of cursing, he shouted above the smoke alarm - 

 

“I made grilled cheeses!”

 

Despite the ravages left in his wake, there was a plate of absolutely perfect grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen. Though you still weren’t sure how he managed to burn a hole through your griddle, he replaced it his next time over. After that, it became a give and take - sometimes he brought food (he played it safe and always brought the best take out), sometimes you guys had leftovers. Either way, he always left full.

 

As you got up to go to the kitchen, he laid down on the bed with a long exhale. He didn’t look as bad as he did the first night that he’d dropped by, but he still looked like he’d been in a fight. No black eye this time (thank the Lord), but his lip was busted (again), and there was a white bandage across the bridge of his nose. 

 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” you asked, pulling a large tupperware from the fridge. Jean had made this incredible pasta salad a night ago, and of course you took the leftovers with you. And, as you were feeling particularly lazy, something that was filling that didn’t require a lot of work was ideal.

 

“Oh, you know, saving the world - Avengening things. Why? You wanna ask me out on a date?” 

 

“Something like that.” You closed the fridge door, setting the tupperware with the salad on the counter. “Wanted to see if you wanted to go to a potluck with me. It’s a very exclusive, hush-hush thing, so if you go, you can’t say a word about what you see.”

 

His curiosity piqued, his expression went from playful to moderately serious. “What do you mean, ‘exclusive potluck’?”

 

“Just what I said. Featuring the best Southern food-“

 

“Sold. When is it?”

 

Well, that had been hard. “Tomorrow at about 4. You meet me here, and I’ll take you. There’s a few rules, though,” and figuring _why bother with bowls_ , you brought the tupperware to the bed with two forks. “You gotta bring somethin’ with you. No bags of ice.”

 

“I’ve said it before - ice is a vital part of a cook out.” He picked up a fork and stabbed at the pasta before shoving it in his mouth. He chewed experimentally, nodded in approval, and went for another forkful.

 

“Yeah, but if you bring ice to this thing and no food, you’re liable to get hurt. Since you’re new, I think you can get away with something store bought, but don’t make a habit of it.”

 

“Okay, is this really a potluck or is it a fight club?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive and still updating! (and particularly proud of Sam's accent). This fanfic is the beast that would not die. Doing a bit of re-tooling, though...


	7. Jeux des cités rivales - Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the Fourth of July without some fireworks? ;)

The next day, you were dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and comfortable tennis shoes, your hair pulled back from your face with a bandana. You’d spent the better part of the day cooking - each pot luck, you liked to try your hand at something different. This go round, you’d made grilled chicken quesadillas with queso blanco and a green avocado salsa. Knowing that Clint was going to be there, you’d made enough to feed a small army. 

 

You were in the process of loading down your insulated picnic bag when there came a knock at the door. Surprised, you pushed an errant strand of hair behind an ear and opened the door. There stood Clint, bag of ice in one hand (you were going to **_strangle_** him) and a tinfoil wrapped casserole dish in the other. He was wearing a white shirt with a purple bullseye on it, ripped and sagging jeans, and purple converse. On anyone else, it’d look sloppy, but on him, it was an endearing mess. 

 

“Everyone needs ice,” he pouted, and looked over your shoulder to your picnic bag. “Just how many people are gonna be at this thing?”

 

“Me, you, and three others. I made extra to make sure everyone gets enough. I’m honestly surprised that you came in through the door; thought the window was your thing.”

 

“Couldn’t fit the ice and my offering and myself through the window.”

 

“Fair enough.” You were curious as all get out about the tinfoil package he had, and he must’ve picked up on your look. 

 

“No peeking!” He held the tinfoil closer to him. “It’s a surprise.”

 

Now it was your turn to pout. “Well, let’s get a move on; that Uber driver ain’t gonna wait all day on account of us.” You hefted the picnic bag up on your shoulder. Clint gave you a solemn nod.

 

“Let’s do this.”

 

++++++++++++

 

You literally led Clint to the middle of nowhere in the backwoods of the school, following a trail only you could see. At the end of the winding road, there they all were, Rogue setting out the food, Sam putting the finishing touches on a fire pit, and Remy fiddling with a card between his fingers, the edges of it glowing pink. Rogue was the first to notice you, with a high pitched squeal that would have done Jubilee justice, she ran over to you and grabbed you in a huge hug that lifted your feet off the ground. 

 

“So glad ta see ya! Hi, Ah’m Rogue,” she said, looking over your shoulder at Clint, who, by the tone of Rogue’s voice, must’ve had a hell of an expression on his face.

 

“Rogue, honey, you are going to break my ribs if you don’t turn me loose!” You squirmed a little in her grasp, and, with a hearty laugh, she set you down. 

 

“It’s been too long since we’ve all been together out here like this, y’know?” She kissed your cheek, leaving behind a faint trace of her lipgloss and a candy light fragrance of perfume and hair spray. 

 

“It has. That’s what makes these things so good.” Walking over to the blanket that Rogue had set out, you put down your bags. “I made quesadillas with queso blanco and salsa.”

 

“Sugarbee, ya spoil us,” drawled Sam, standing up from the fire pit. Dusting off his hands, he held one out to Clint. “I’m Sam Guthrie.”

 

“Clint.” The two of them shook hands. The smile on Sam’s face let you know that the lanky man instantly liked Clint. Look at that  - you didn’t even have to use your powers to see everyone’s good will. Clint was at ease around him; probably because Sam was so unassuming looking. The last thing you’d expect from him was the whole rocket butt thing (okay, so it technically wasn’t his butt, but whatever). 

 

“(Your name)’s told us a bit aboutcha,” Sam drawled, going back to rearranging the kindling in the fire pit, “But I figger it’d be better hearing it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

 

“Let him at least get settled, dang,” sighed Rogue. “And Remy hadn’t even said as much as ‘boo’ ta him yet!” Remy looked up from where he was sitting, playing card still in hand, and he shot you a liquid sex smile. Despite your best efforts, you felt the blood rush to your cheeks. 

 

You’d wondered how that was going to play out. It seemed that the more you hung around the Avengers, the more curious Remy got about what was going on - and Remy wasn’t particularly a nosey sort. You’d been attracted to him in the past (how could anything with a pulse NOT be), but you never even thought to pursue it. Remy was good people, but he had a mess of trouble that he brought with him like Santa had presents. It just wasn’t going to happen. And then the whole thing between him and Rogue - just, yeah. You weren’t going to touch that with a ten foot pole. 

 

Remy **_was_** a very good friend, though. What tied the two of you together, initially, were the similarities in your powers. The Professor had expressed that he wanted you and Remy to do more training together, but Remy wasn’t the most reliable man in the world. So you’d put it on the back burner. From the little training time that the two of you had spent together, he’d been immensely helpful in learning how to channel your “charm” abilities; so much so that out of all of your powers, it was the one you never worried about. Your control had grown by leaps and bounds, and it was largely due to him.

 

“ _Desole_ , Remy been rude,” he purred in a velveteen voice, standing up. “Remy LeBeau,” and, to your surprise, he held out his hand for Clint to shake. Clint looked at Remy, looked at your reddened face, raised an eyebrow, and then firmly gripped Remy’s hand. “Clint Barton,” and, without missing a beat, “So what’s the deal between you two?”

 

“ _Pourqoui_ , jealous?” Remy sidled up closer, draping a heavy arm around you. This close, you were nearly lost in his deep cologne. You turned redder, and something went hard in Clint’s eyes. 

 

“Real subtle, Remy,” and you elbowed him, your face growing hotter. Remy, laughing huskily, let his arm fall from around you, and sauntered off to where he’d been sitting next to the fire pit. 

 

Rogue and Sam burst into hearty laughter. Clint looked like he didn’t think the joke was too particularly funny. Odd. Clint had always felt comfortable around you - you’d never actively picked up that he could’ve felt anything else. He couldn’t possibly be jealous, could he…? You itched to take just the smallest peek, but forced yourself not to. Still, the clench in Clint’s jaw let you know that he wasn’t too particularly pleased. The grip on his casserole dish tightened. 

 

“That’s jest Remy’s way,” supplied Rogue, pausing in taking the food out of the various bags. “He’d flirt with anything.” The woman had a sixth sense for Remy drama, and you gave her a grateful smile that she stepped in. “Me and him used ta be a thing, ages ago,” she added, as she smiled at Clint over her shoulder. She was unloading bottle after bottle from what looked to be a duffle bag. Girl came prepared to wreck, apparently. 

 

Rogue couldn’t cook a lick, but what she couldn’t cook, she made up for in booze. Lots and lots of booze. The girl could mix a drink so well that you couldn’t taste the alcohol until it was too late. 

 

“(Your name) n’ me just friends. Ain’t we, Sugarbee?” And Remy did this thing with his lips that made you want to scream. Clint gave Remy a sarcastic look - something caught between a strained smile and a grimace. Remy grinned back, insolently. 

 

“You best stop messin’ with me or I’ll sic Sam on you.” You were flustered, but Remy was playing with you. It was never Remy’s M.O. to be flat out malicious or toy with anyone’s feelings. Blind animal lust aside, you knew he cared - in his own, Remy way.

 

“You ain’t about ta sic me on no one, I tell ya what.” Sam stood up again, eyeballing the fire pit. “I think she’s about done, Remy. Light ‘er up.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘light her up’?” Clint stage whispered to you, his casserole tray still firmly in his hands. You wondered when he was going to set it down. He’d been holding onto it like it was his baby.

 

“Watch.” You moved closer to Clint. You were halfway tempted to thread your arm in his, but…You hadn’t been like, that physically close to Clint in the past. It’d be awkward (and potentially sending the wrong message) to start now.

 

_But it sure would be nice…_

 

Remy snapped the playing card between his fingers, and it began to glow a deep pink. “ _Voila_!” Exploding in a dance of magenta, the firewood caught, and in no time at all, the fire pit was blazing. Rogue pressed a cup into everyone’s hand - from the initial smell of it, whatever it was, it was going to be strong as hell. When she put one in Clint’s hand, she gave him a coy wink, then stood beside you. You didn't have to read her aura to know that she was itching to find out what was going on.

 

Standing in front of the fire, Sam solemnly lifted his glass. “I hereby call the Super Secret Southern Potluck to order! DRINK!”

 

Clint looked at you for guidance, confusion clear on his face as everyone else lifted their glass. You motioned for him to do the same, and took a huge gulp of your drink. It burned pleasantly all the way down. Clint had taken a sip of his, and then looked at you. Remy, Rogue, and Sam were still drinking.

 

“It’s not official until you down the entire thing,” you stage-whispered at him, and taking a deep breath, began to chug again. 

 

Clint’s eyebrows raised, but he had a shit-eating grin on his face as he tilted his glass back. Long seconds later, when every glass was empty, Sam tilted his head back and let out a howl. It wasn’t long before Rogue and Remy joined him. And, without the slightest care, so did you. Clint stared at you for the briefest of seconds before he joined in.

 

+++++++++++

 

“And then, she just dun tumped over and was out till Christmas!” The end of Sam’s story was met with raucous laughter. Even though the story was at your expense (Sam was telling Clint about your last experience with the drunk cherries), you laughed as hard as everyone else. The food had been an instant hit  - and Clint seemed to have a taste for the drunk cherries Sam brought. Delicately nibbling on one now, his blue eyes shining with good humor and the dancing orange of the fire. “She can have just a few, though, right? These are great,” he said around a mouthful of them.

 

“Give ‘em to her at yer own risk,” Sam said, mock gravely. “She will tell you what she really thinks of you, yer mother, yer boss, yer dead grandma. Loosen her tongue quicker n’stink on shit.”

 

“Sam, that don’t even make sense,” you sighed, but laughed anyway. He was right - you got real chatty when you had a few. There were no such things as ‘secrets’ at that point.

 

Warm inside and out from the fire and the steady flow of good drink, you leaned back onto your hands, waving your feet back and forth in front of the flames. The sky above was a black banner speckled with stars, and the moon was full and bright overhead. Mild weather, no mosquitos (how?!) - it was honestly shaping out to be a perfect night. 

 

Well, beside that whole weird tension thing between Clint and Remy. 

 

Well, really, more like the one-sided tension Clint had towards Remy. Remy was as carefree as ever, carrying on with his flirtatious ways with both you and Rogue. You knew it meant nothing, but it didn’t seem that Clint saw it that way. You were honestly curious as well - it didn’t seem like Clint to be jealous, and you couldn’t think of anything else that it could be. Perhaps they were too similar for their own good? Nah, couldn’t be. Maybe? You did know marginally more about Remy’s past than you did about Clint’s - amazing how many people you knew that also came from broken or dysfunctional families. You would’ve thought that it would have brought the two of them together. 

 

So, if it wasn’t that, what else could it be but jealousy? But god, that didn’t sound right. Clint had never even breathed so much as a potentially romantic (or lustful) feeling towards you - just always that warm vibe of being immensely comfortable with you. Well, that one time he was naked - but that didn’t count!

 

And Remy, being the little perceptive shit that he was, would steal covert kisses when you weren’t paying attention - your forehead, your cheek. Once, dangerously enough to your own lips that you were left a little shaken. He’d been close enough to feel his stubble graze your lower lip. 

 

Remy was typically affectionate with you when he COULD be - a kiss to the back of your hand, to your cheeks at greeting and partings, but he was really pouring it on now. And Clint was getting tenser and tenser. You could also tell that Sam had an eye on the entire situation, even in the midst of his storytelling, and he was about to take them both ‘out back’ to get it straightened out.

 

“What’s this here, now?”  Rogue’s voice broke you out of your revelry. She held Clint’s casserole dish, gingerly lifting up an edge of the tin foil. Clint looked over at her, an embarrassed smile on his face.

 

“(Your name) said that I couldn’t come without bringing something, so I made something. Well, me and Katie-Kate. Really, it was Kate’s idea, so if you hate it, it’s her fault.”

 

“Kate?” You looked over at him, eyebrows raised. Were you jealous? Nahhh…Couldn’t be. Maybe surprised?

 

“Yeah, Kate,” Clint supplied, a hint of _I thought you knew about her_ in his voice. “She’s -“

 

“Don’t haveta explain to me!” you blurted out, a bit too loud, and cradled your drink closer to you, before taking a steeling drink. Well that was that. Clint had a girlfriend. And one that helped him cook. Well that was just fine and dandy and swell and thanks for saying something **_now_** before you really made an ass out of yourself. Okay. Great. Your face was burning, and it was more than the heat from the alcohol and the warmth from the flame. An awkward silence was brewing, and, Rogue, bless her sweet heart, spoke up: 

 

“Ah know! Let’s play a game. I call ‘Truth or Dare’. Sam!” You knew Rogue well enough to catch the thin thread of desperation in her voice. She was trying to change the subject, and change it quick. And calling on Sam had been a stroke of genius; he’d been in his cups but he was sober enough to know when a situation was going sideways.

 

“Truth,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair.

 

“How do you feel about Dani?” Rogue’s eyes glittered, and Sam’s easy going face blossomed pink. 

 

“Er…I…”

 

“Gotta tell the truth or suffer de punishment!” crowed Remy, suddenly all about this.

 

“What’s the punishment?” asked Sam, perhaps a little too eager.

 

“Shots,” Rogue and Remy said in unison. 

 

“I plead the Fifth and will take my punishment,” Sam said with a stoic nod. “‘Sides, it’s just a shot.”

 

“Naw it ain’t!” grinned Rogue, handing Sam a red cup. “It’s everythan’ Ah brought with me - a Rogue Special shot!”

 

Your eyes widened. So did Sam’s. Clint looked confused. Rogue had brought the usual suspects, but with her way of mixing drinks, whatever was in that cup could potentially strip the paint off of a car. Looking quite pleased with the reactions from everyone, she nodded sagely. “It’s a new thang Ah’m tryin’ out. Still tryin’ ta test if Ah can get Logan drunk. Now take the shot,” she grinned, watching Sam like a hawk. Sam gulped.

 

You said a silent prayer for Sam. Remy made the sign of the Cross. Sam closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and took a long swig from the cup. You all leaned in closer, watching, waiting. Sam’s face grew absolutely scarlet, and he lapsed into horrific coughing. You were about to rush over with a bottle of water, but he sat up and waved you away. Tears were in his eyes, but he had a triumphant grin on his face. 

 

“BOOM,” he said, setting down the cup triumphantly. “Let it be known that Sam Guthrie cannot be outdone by any little ole drank!”

 

But by the way he was slurring his words, you weren’t too sure. 

 

Over the course of the game, you learned the following:

 

  1. Sam would rather drink than talk about his love life,
  2. Rogue wanted to see a live taping of the Maury Povich show,
  3. Clint could do the Roger Rabbit,
  4. and Remy could do a split (so, so, so many questions) -



 

The game had been lighthearted enough, you drinking enough to forget the whole ‘Kate’ thing, and just when that feeling of dread in your stomach had finally been beaten into submission by the amount of alcohol consumed, here came goddamn Remy - 

 

“Truth or dare, _mon ami_ ,” he drawled at Clint.

 

“Truth,” said Clint. 

 

“How d’you feel about Sugarbee?”

 

“EEEHHHH!” you did your best to imitate a buzzer, “Clint doesn’t have to answer that. Southern Law - some shit is too personal for strangers!”

 

“EHHHHH,” Remy mocked, right back at you, “Southern Law - we all family now; we been drinkin’, shared food, and I wanna know his intentions!”

 

“…He’s got a point, Sugarbee,” murmured Rogue. You looked desperately at Sam for him to veto it. He had his eyes closed, seeming to weigh the situation.

 

“I’ll allow it.”

 

You swore.

 

“It’s fine, (your name). Been meaning to get it off my chest anyway. I like you.” Clint looked right at you, across the glow of the fire.

 

“Oh, I like you too, Clint.” Crisis averted. That was easy. 

 

“Dat's all well and good but dat ain’t what I asked. Clint. The truth, _homme_.” Remy’s voice had a razor edge to it, and it was beginning to cut through your buzz. It was so unlike him to be this…this protective. What in the hell was happening?

 

Clint must’ve heard the sharpness in Remy’s voice, because he responded in kind, “I like (your name), like, in a potentially romantic way?" He was floundering for words, his face growing redder by the minute. You were rapt, clinging to your cup like it held all of the answers to all the mysteries of the world. "I’m not so good at the dating thing. I wanna date her,” and his face turned bright pink. He shut himself up by shoving a good portion of the drunk cherries in his mouth.

 

Silence fell around the camp fire. Before you could say anything, Remy was speaking again. “How you gon’ have a crush on Sugarbee if you don’ know anything ‘bout her?” His voice was calm, but cold. “What does she teach? What’s her favorite food? What does she do as a hobby? How long she been in New York?”

 

Clint opened his mouth in protest, and you waited, waited for him to answer at least one of the questions, because you’d mentioned it, hadn’t you, at least one of those things....? For the life of you, you couldn't remember. Remy had a point, though - it was all very basic, "getting to know you" 101. But, could you say the same about Clint? Could you, if anyone directly asked, tell anyone anything about Clint? Other than you assumed his favorite color was purple?

 

Clint closed his mouth; looked crestfallen.

 

“Dat’s what I thought." Remy sounded triumphant, but there was some resignation, some sigh of defeat. Or maybe it was the booze. "I bet dis crush is only ‘cause you dunn made someone up in yer head-”

 

“That’s not fair,” snapped Clint, “I like (your name) because she never makes me feel like a fuck up-”

 

Okay: this was getting way too real too fast. You helplessly took another drink from your cup, unsure of what to say, or where to even jump in.

 

“You cain’t just go ‘round sayin’ ya like someone because you use dem as a crutch. Dat ain’t fair to Sugarbee and she deserves better than a third-rate Avenger dat can’t get his shit straight!” Remy had risen to his feet, and his accent had grown so strong that you could barely understand him. You’d never seen him this angry, and it was frightening. And…if you were going to be honest, it was flattering as well. It was nice to know that he cared - cared this much to - 

 

Oh, god, what were you even thinking? Clint!

 

Clint’s hands were balled into fists, and there was a guilty expression on his face. Before you could get up to say anything (to be fair, you were a little paralyzed with what all was happening - so much, so quick), Rogue’s voice broke through:

 

“Let’s go make some more drinks, right, Sugarbee?” Rogue’s honey sweet voice calmed you, and brought you back down to the real world. Sam looked to be about sick of all of the drama, and with a long sigh, he stood up, and clasped Remy’s shoulder.

 

“I got somethin’ I wanna show ya; come on back here with me.”

 

“Naw, more fun up here, ain’t it?” Remy said, calm as anything.

 

“You too,” Sam suddenly added, dragging Remy back with him as he grabbed Clint’s shoulder. 

 

“What, me?” Clint’s confusion was clear in his voice. “No, I gotta explain - shit, that didn’t sound right, I mean I-”

 

“ ‘Th more the merrier, _c’est vrai_?” Remy looked over at Clint, and Clint’s expression hardened. It was to his credit that he didn’t say anything to Remy, but that civility was wearing thin. 

 

“Remy, if you don’t shut yer pie hole, I’mma knock it closed. C’mon.” With that, the lanky Southerner dragged the two men back into the woods, leaving you and Rogue by the fireside, the casserole dish forgotten. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit just got real.


	8. Cortège du sage: Le Sage

 

“What’s Remy’s deal?” You were starting to get sore. You’d seen him drunk before, but never anything like this - just pick, pick, picking away. It was childish - and you weren’t a fan of it.

 

“Mm?” Rogue looked up momentarily from mixing the next set of drinks. “Remy? Oh, hell, Sugarbee, he’s just playin’ big brother to ya. I suspect he’s got Sam in on it, too.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘big brother’?” You were gobsmacked. Remy and “protective” didn’t exactly go in the same sentence. Or breath. Or thought process. Or anything. It wasn’t that you saw Remy as “selfish” – he was a hard one to read. He wasn’t what you’d call a team player, and was always honest about his less than altruistic motives. But to hover and/or baby someone? Didn’t seem likely. And you, of all people? It wasn’t like you guys had a long, deeply connected past. You’d only known him for a few years. And, like, two of those didn’t count since you’d only seen him in passing. 

 

“You cain’t be that dense.” At that, she did turn away from the drinks, holding one half full bottle in her hand. “Remy likes you. A lot.” She said it without a twinge of jealously or anger, which was…good? You didn’t expect her to still be sensitive about what happened between her and Remy in the past, but one never could really tell with these sort of things. “Ah couldn’t tell ya why, though,” she added, with a hint of playful sarcasm, “because you’re about the worst thing.”

 

Unable to help yourself, you laughed. “I’m not that bad.”

 

She shook her head, her auburn hair voluminous around her shoulders. “Remy does care for you a lot. My guess is that whole thing with your powers; Ah think he doesn’t want you to get hurt with em and all. That’s just my supposin’, though. You’ll haveta ask him for the real reason. Men are strange. Sometimes they just latch onta people and even they don’t likely know why.”

 

She paused, contemplative. “Lemme rephrase that. People are strange – we all latch onta folks and we don’t rightly know why sometimes.”

 

You were temporarily stunned into silence, taking a small sip of your drink. Even with the ice partially melted in it, it still packed a helluva punch. “I didn’t think Remy was capable of feeling that way for anyone but you and Ororo.” Even though you were a “newcomer,” you’d been around long enough (and, Jubilee) to hear stories of some of the wilder X-Men escapades. The de-aging with Nanny (or whatever the hell her name had been) and how Remy came aboard was one of the first things you’d heard.

 

“Remy’s capable of a lot of things people don’t give him credit for. Sometimes he even surprises himself.” Rogue’s smile was bittersweet. Walking closer to her, you lightly nudged her side with your elbow.

 

“You think they’re done with him yet?”

 

“Probably.” Rogue tilted the contents of the bottle further into a cup. “But Ah ain’t done with you. What’s goin’ on between you and them Avenger boys? First Captain America, now Hawkeye. And you got greener n’ a toad at that girl’s name. Spill.”

 

You felt your face grow warm. But, you were among friends, and there was no hiding anything from Rogue. “Hell, I dunno. Steve and I went out to that concert, and hadn’t really heard much from him since. He’s Captain America, for godssake, he’s not gonna have any downtime like we do. Captain America, Rogue. AMURIKA.”

 

“But he made the time ta begin with.” Her back was to you as she began to stir the drinks. “What’s with you and Clint?”

 

“Clint and I are just friends,” you said, quick as anything, and perhaps in too much of a rush. You hadn’t really thought about it, and the ‘friends’ thing was a knee jerk reaction. “I guess? I think? I can’t pick up anything from him. I ain’t about to look.” Besides that one lingering touch, there hadn’t been much contact between you and Clint. Not anything you’d read romantically into, anyway. No hugs, no lingering touches hands, no studying of lips. “The name just caught me by surprise, is all.” Yup. Truth. Yuuuupppp. 

 

“Caught you by surprise. Mmhmmm,” Rogue drew out, pulling the casserole dish closer to her. 

She turned to face you, a Big Gulp cup of booze in her hand. Her lips quirked. “Ah ain’t tellin’ ya to look. For someone who can read everyone else’s emotions, you sure are a stranger to yours. Always have been. Though Ah ain’t likely the one to talk.” She sighed, took a long drink, and grimaced. Oh lord. If she was grimacing, whatever was in that cup probably could kill a football team. “It just seems that you and him are gittin’ real close.”

 

“ ‘Seems’ would be the right word. He drops on my patio, asks for somethin’ to eat, and shoots the shit for however long. Sorta like a baby bird.”

 

Rogue’s eyes lit up. “ ‘Baby bird’? Ah’mma start callin’ him that.”

 

“You better not.”

 

“Too late!”

 

As the two of you went to sit next to the bonfire, Rogue stared into the flickering light, before she spoke again. “All jokin’ aside, Sugarbee, Ah think you should listen to your gut. Trust it more. You and Baby Bird are friends; you’re friends. But don’t go lookin’ for somethin’ more because you can’t figure out what’s going on with Steve. Ain’t right ta either one of ‘em.”

 

“That’s the thing, Rogue. I dunno what we are,” you took another long pull from your cup. “I never thought to push the issue. Doesn’t feel like I need to. Clint talks a lot, but not a lot about himself. Remy laid into him real good about him not knowing anything about me, but truth is, I couldn’t even tell you his birthday.” And technically you did just find out that he had a girlfriend, so, yeah. Talking a lot and saying nothing seemed to fit the bill between the two of you. “It just..never felt like he could like me like that, y’know?”

 

“You ever worry that you may have hit ‘em a teeny tiny bit with yer powers?” Her eyes were concerned, even behind the shine of _getting to be just about too much alcohol_.

 

“Not really.” You learned forward, drawing your knees to your chest. “There were times I lost control and could see into their auras without concentrating, but it was only a one way thing. Like, quick patterns of color, like when someone uses a flash in a dark room. Besides,” and, thinking back on it, you had to chuckle, “If I had, I don’t think our clothes would’ve stayed on. Rooogggguuueeee,” and you resisted the urge to squeal and kick back, “They’re both so hoootttt. And you’d think, totally, after all this time here at the mansion and around sex bomb Remy I’d be immune to it. But what makes it worse is that Steve is also the sweetest guy and Clint is such a good guy too, but he’s damaged. I dunno what or why or how, but…he just is. I can’t go barging around in his emotions and figure out why.”

 

“Sug, we’re all damaged. But,” and she looked over at you with a dangerous glitter in her eye, “You could always just use your powers and have an orgy.”

 

You sputtered on your drink, your face turning red. “…I’d be lyin’ if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

 

Rogue blinked, as if she wasn’t sure if she heard you correctly, looked at you again, and hooted. “Jess go on in there, hit ‘em with a whammy, and get all night long!”

 

“If I did, would you want to join in?” You couldn’t help but to tease her back. You couldn’t, openly, at least, talk about sex with anyone, really, at the school. So, Rogue had quickly become your compatriot in filthy, filthy things. Now, how much of that was her, residual memories from those she’d touched long ago, or being around Logan was anyone’s guess. “Too much for one gal to handle. Well, non-stop at least. Because that’s totally how I was seeing it.” Even as you spoke, some of the more delightfully racy daydreams you’d had about the Avengers men began to dance across your mind. In particular, one of you, Steve, and a shower head was particularly enticing. Or one of Clint doing a teasing dance with that tiny little towel.

 

Rogue playfully fanned herself, careful not to spill her drink. “Gives me the vapors thinking about it. Dibs on Thor.”

 

“Who’s got dibs on Thor now?” Clint’s voice was confident and teasing, and the two of you, far from being embarrassed, started to laugh.

 

“Remy be interested in hearin’ ‘bout dis.” There was a playful note in his voice, all of the dark sex wiped away. Swiveling on the log you were sitting on (and perhaps wobbling a bit more than you thought), you turned to face the voices. Sam, Remy, and Clint stood side by side. Apparently their bro talk in the woods went well – there wasn’t as much tension between Clint and Remy, and Sam looked like he hadn’t had to break up any fistfights. 

 

“Rogue said she wanted to ride on Thor’s thundering chario-“ You were cut off as she clapped her hand over your mouth. Rogue’s laughter was quiet in your ear. “Don’t ferget what we talked about,” she whispered, and moved her hand. You nodded.

 

Louder, Rogue said, “Jess a little girl talk. Ain’t nothing come of it. Drinks is over there,” and she gestured to where she had them neatly lined up next to the food. The casserole dish beckoned.

 

“Ain’t need to hear alla dat, then,” Remy sighed, and if you didn’t know any better, he sounded marginally disappointed.

 

“So who gets me?” Clint asked, his eyes sly. And…they landed right on you.

 

You quickly raised the drink to your lips. “Can’t talk; drinking.”

 

“You can’t be drinking forever,” Clint prodded, moving to sit next to you. His eyes were on your throat and lips. What was that about being “just friends”? It all went out the window, the way he was watching you. And that whole “crush” thing. He had to have been drunk. Nearly coughing on your drink, you switched gears and focused on it solely. 

 

“Sounds like a challenge TA ME!” crowed Rogue, and as you finished the one cup, Rogue pressed another one into your hand. And down it went.

 

“Rogue, honey, what’s in them there cups?” Sam asked, his big brother-ness slipping into his voice.

 

She shrugged. “Rum and coke.”

 

Sam fixed her with a look.

 

“Okay; more rum, less coke. She’ll be fine.”

 

“ _Cher’s_ got a point,” Remy added. “It ain’t the rum that does Sugarbee in.”

 

You finished this second cup, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. The world was turning light, wavering at the corners. This buzz was fantastic. And without even trying, their auras crept from them, swirling colors of light, warm, beautiful light, surrounding you, the forest, the fire, all was right with the world, finally –

 

“Y’alll, this is soooo beautiful,” you drawled. “You should see it. I feel it. I can feel the cosmos.”

 

“And that’s enough o’ that,” and Sam intercepted what would be the third (?) cup. You pouted.

 

“Why you gotta be like that, Sam? Ain’t like you,” you sniffed. Truth: everyone usually drank themselves into a black out and Sam was usually the last one to discourage shots. Maybe he knew something you didn’t?

 

Remy looked amused. “ ‘Cause we ain’t fixin’ ta stay here, _cher_. Yer _homme_ said he was up for karaoke. Sounded lik-“

 

“KARAOKE OH EM GEE I’M DOWN WHERE AT,” you yelled, instantly getting to your feet – and stumbling a bit to the side. You would have likely fallen, had you not run into Clint. Your face pressed into his chest, you gripped at his shirt and pulled yourself up him a little. Under the wood smoke of the fire, you could smell him – not clean and diamonds and America like Steve, but a little rougher, more body odor, something earthier in his cologne, if that’s even what it was. Patchouli? Whatever it was, it worked, and you inhaled deeply, pressing your nose into him. His arms hovered over you, before they drifted down to your arms. 

 

“Girl, when’s the last time you been out drinkin’? You usually handle yer rum better’n this,” Remy said, loudly.

 

The moment tore like tissue paper. Clint gave you a lop-sided smile, and helped untangle you. Remy was already on his way over, and before you could blink, his voice was in your ear, “Watch it, _petite._ Can’t be leaking, not wid him. Unless he know?” His red on black eyes searched your face for a confirmation. Your head was swimming, pleasantly, but you hadn’t felt yourself let go of your powers. Remy looped an arm in yours, and gently lead you away and back to the log beside Rogue. 

 

“Was I?” you whispered back, the buzz fading - but not vanishing. You still had to be a little drunk, because for the moment, you forgot that you were supposed to be mad at Remy for being a dick. Or had you forgiven him already because Rogue said that Remy really really liked you and gave enough shits to be constantly looking out for you? Because awwwwwwwww. 

 

_Wait, what’s happening?_

 

_Oh, yeah, powers. Fuck. Powers!_

 

Because of the training that you’d gone through with Remy, your control was fairly impeccable - yes, if you were surprised, you could see into the auras of others, but nothing more than a snap shot - and they couldn’t see into yours. It was a shield - carefully crafted and maintained so that you didn’t have to think about keeping yourself from constantly being overwhelmed by the colors of others. However - if you were legitimately surprised, or otherwise indisposed (i.e., shitfaced), you ran the risk of letting your personal shields drop, and then your emotions would be projected on those around you. Your powers were like a matryoshka doll, with your most intimate emotions nestled in the very center - the idea was to prevent you from leaking that unless you were concentrating / in absolute control.

 

“Naw, not yet.” Remy helped you to steady yourself on your feet, a reassuring arm around your shoulder. Then, as if he realized something, his eyes went crafty. “Unless you ain’t that drunk and just wanted a feel of the _homme?_ ” This, he said loud enough to broadcast over the entire little party. “Ain’t gotta lie!” Remy added, letting his arm drop from you. You wrenched away from Remy, stumbling ever so slightly. Okay, you were drunk, but you weren’t capital D drunk – but how to explain? Clint had felt so good, so warm, so comfortable – you were positive you hadn’t hit him with your powers; weren’t concentrating enough to-, but you could feel his comfort and joy pouring off of him and you’d wanted to wrap yourself up in it like a giant fuzzy Clint blanket.

 

After Remy’s comment, it’d gotten real quiet, real quick, and maybe just the tiniest bit awkward. Clint was frozen in place, amused, and you couldn’t trust your eyes enough right now to determine if that was a purple of lust wafting off of him. Wishful thinking? 

 

Rogue and Sam had been standing by; you could see the concern from them morphing into amusement. Your powers had no effect on them (weird thing about mutant abilities), and it’s not like they were attuned to see if you were using them on someone else – only Remy seemed to have that ability (again, weird thing about mutant abilities), which is why he was right now your best bro, totally looking out for you.

 

“Remy, I love you,” you sighed, batting your eyelashes like a lovestruck teenager.  His responding grin warmed you.

 

“ _Et toi, aussi,”_ he airly responded. “So, Clint, _homme…”_

“Oh, yeah,” said Clint, seeming as if he came out of a daze. “Yeah, so, no one’s gonna be at the Tower and I have it on good authority that Tony has a sweet sound set up. I think we can go there and do some karaoke.” His cheeks were a little flushed – but that could have been the firelight.

 

“Uh, Clint,” you started, “you…uh, well, uh…is the Tower set up to handle mutants? You know…what we all can do, right?” You’d hoped that by including that “we”, he would infer that you were asking if he knew what you could do as well. “I’m like the least powerful here,” you added, as a prod.

 

“Oh, yeah, yeah – kinetic energy,” Clint pointed at Remy, “Thermal discharge?”, he pointed at Sam, “And super strength and power transfers,” he ended, pointing at Rogue. You were notably absent. Well, maybe he was just pointing out the people that had potentially explosive powers. “Should be fine. We did have a Hulk throw around a god in there once.”

 

Rogue had already started packing up the bottles and food. “Ah’m down!”

 


	9. Danse de La Terre

To be fair, none of the Super Secret Southern Potlucks had someone using their powers inappropriately. Something about having to use them as a part of a “job” meant that during the downtime, no one wanted to use them. For the most part, at least. Pranks were fair ground.

 

Still, though, as you watched Remy belt out Phil Collins’s “Two Hearts”, you weren’t entirely sure that he wasn’t using his charm, because he had to be doing something to keep you guys sitting there during his horrible caterwauling. Granted, you were immune to it (powers canceling each other out? Hank had a few theories, but none ever really stuck), but Remy’s voice, as velvet as it was, was not meant for singing. Ever.

 

Clint looked as if he’d made a terrible mistake by suggesting it – and he tilted a jar of drunken cherries your way. And against your better judgment, you grabbed a few, and popped them into your mouth. The moonshine was smooth – and combined with your growing buzz, you didn’t feel the bite as you usually would.

 

“This is absolutely incredible,” murmured Clint, reaching over to nurse a bottle of beer as well. You wanted to say something about mixing beer and moonshine, but, eh. You’d lost count of all of the stuff you’d had tonight. “Like…he has that whole French sex going for him and he sounds like this…” Clint shook his head, absolutely baffled.

 

“It’s somethin’, all right,” you said, around a mouthful of cherry. “Can’t tell him to stop, though. Thems the rules.”

 

Tony’s living room had converted into a party space quite well – even though everyone was the worse for wear for the liquor. The taxi ride over had been interesting, full of the clink of bottles and crock pots and laughter and squeezing a lot of people into a very small space. You’d been comfortably wedged up against Clint the entire time, nearly in his lap, and he hadn’t seemed to mind one bit. Once everyone had tumbled out and headed up, Clint still kept close. JARVIS had been notably silent on everyone’s entrance – which was…odd, but you were starting to feel the tequila (or was it rum? Or maybe that bourbon?) and didn’t feel like questioning it. Besides, JARVIS was smart enough to figure out who you all were – and it wasn’t like you were breaking in. Tony HAD given you free reign to come over whenever, and there was still food left over – all neatly arranged, buffet style, on the bar, for the ease of grazing. Clint’s casserole dish was still untouched.

 

Clint had dragged out an ancient karaoke system (didn’t say where he’d gotten it from), and took a few minutes to get it set up. Remy had hovered over him the entire time, eager as a kitten, murmuring to himself about which song he wanted to pick. You’d expected him to ham it up, sing something so sexually explicit that even JARVIS would blush, but he’d surprised the hell out of everyone by picking the Phil Collins song. And even though his voice was progressively getting worse (Remy must be drunker than anyone assumed - dang, boy had a poker face from Hell), he was just so goddamn peppy about it that you couldn’t stop watching. 

 

Sam was buried face down in a pillow, and Rogue watched the spectacle with her eyes narrowed, a look of incredulous disgust on her face. Fumbling for her Big Gulp cup, she took a long, long swig, hissed, and looked at you with a “please stop him,” expression.

 

Finally, the aural torment came to a stop, and Remy gave an over the top bow. “T’ank ya, t’ank ya,” and he pointed squarely at you. “Yer turn, Sugarbee! Sang one for Rogue.”

 

You groaned. Caught on the spot, you had no idea what to sing for Rogue. With a laborious sigh, you started to get up. Clint, looked at you, a little worried.

 

“I thought you liked karaoke?” he asked, trying to mask his expression with another sip of his beer. You stumbled (dang what happened to your balance), and placed a hand reassuringly on his shoulder, before it slide down his arm and you nearly fell over on him, your face right in his. His eyes were lucid and clear - and you were so close that you could see your own reflection in them. That moonshine worked quick.

 

“It ain’t that I don’t like it,” you said, pulling even closer to him. Funny thing about being drunk was what it did to your perception of personal space. “It’s just that Southern Law declares that whoever sings gotta pick the next singer, and who they sing their song to. Only person that gets any freedom is the person that goes first – that’s why Remy went, the sonunabitch.”

 

“Okay, no one explained this Southern Law thing to me,” Clint said, with a grin. Funny; he didn’t try to put any space between you and him. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it? He leaned in closer (or was that your imagination?) - so close his breath tickled your lips, fragrant of cherries and the bite of moonshine, and you unconsciously started to pucker up - “But you keep mentioning it.”

 

_Ooooo, denied!_

 

“Can’t explain now, gotta sing,” you mumbled, hoping that he hadn’t noticed that you’d like, sloppily tried to kiss him, and using him to steady yourself, you pushed off of him and staggered over to the standing mike.

 

“This one is for Rogue,” you said, looking down at the screen. Where to start….Where to start. You sighed heavily into the mike. It couldn’t be any song. It had to stick out, had to make you think of her. Finally, the right title glowed in front of you. “This one is for Rogue,” you said again, your smile wide, and gave her a wink. She returned the gesture, and sat back, giddy. 

 

Okay, so you couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket (to be fair, no one could, when they were this drunk), but you thought you’d done Amy Winehouse a little justice. “MY TEARS DRY ON THEIR OWN,” you belted, pointing straight at Rogue. Oh, she knew the score. She knew about the heartbreak, the fumbling steps towards tenderness, only to fall. But each and and every time, you two managed to stand up and keep going. And you were stronger for it. You both were. From the way she clapped and cheered, you thought you’d done a pretty good job of singing. But hell, after Remy, howling cats would have gotten a standing ovation. As the song ended, you leaned against the mike stand, “Sam, and I veto him singing ta anyone, because he has to do a request!”

 

Southern Law: very mutable.

 

“All right, all right, whatcha want?” He was getting to his feet – he was steadier than you’d thought he be, considering that you’d lost count of how many times he’d refilled his mason jar.

 

“Okay, okay,” you breathed, leaning on the mike stand, “I wantcha ta sing – ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky!’” You staggered to one side, and handed him the mike, before ambling back down to flop down next to Clint.

 

“What’s this vetoing business?” Clint handed you a few more of the cherries. 

 

“Southern Law flows like the ocean,” you said, leaning up against him. God, he was warm and smelled good. And he totally didn’t say anything about you trying to kiss him. Best bro ever. “Now hush, Sam is the best singer ever.”

 

And you weren’t kidding. If Sam decided to one day to quit being an X-Man, he would be the next country sensation. As he started up, the song up tempo, everyone sat up, cups in hand, enraptured. Sam’s voice had a sweetness to it that belied his lanky frame, and it was easy to get lost in it.

 

“How’d you get that nickname?” Clint asked, bringing you out of your revelry.

 

“Do what?”

 

“ ‘Sugarbee.’ Why do they call you that?” He was whispering, doing his best not to speak over Sam’s singing. Apparently Clint appreciated it as well.

 

“Southern Law declares that when you love someone, you give ‘em a nickname. You got one too,” you reached over, grabbing more of the cherries. God, they were good. It’d been too long. 

 

Clint was so quiet that you weren’t sure he’d heard you.

 

“….What’s my nickname?” His voice was sober. If you weren’t so drunk (may as well confess), you would’ve thought twice about how you responded. You probably wouldn’t have said anything to begin with. But they didn’t call liquor “liquid courage” for nothing, and you barreled on ahead.

 

“ ‘Baby bird,’” you sighed, leaning against him. “Cause you come by and beg for food and you’re a bird. Hawkeye. Bird. Hawk bird,” you drawled. “And I kinda love you for it. You’re my baby bird,” you said, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

 

Clint was quiet. Then, surprising you a little, he placed a hand over yours, and drew it to sit in his lap. He laced his fingers through yours, and you squeezed. A ghost of a smile crossed his face, and he turned his attention back to Sam.

 

Truth be told, that’s where things started getting a little fuzzy. You remembered Sam singing “Friends in Low Places”, upon Clint’s request (Clint had inexplicably found a loophole in Southern Law and exploited it) – and how everyone had joined in on the chorus. You remembered a little of Rogue singing something to you, though you couldn’t remember what – you thought it could have been a Katy Perry song? You **_could_** remember snuggling up to Clint, and his arm going around your shoulder, and the warmth of his breath against your cheek, him kissing your forehead, affectionately, before he stood up, and…

 

Oh, that’s right. He’d sung something, too.

 

He was the last person to go up – and there had been a little silence as he went through the songs. He didn’t stumble or seem the slightest bit drunk when he went up. After a few more minutes, the familiar strains of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Run to You” started, and then…

 

Lord.

 

Maybe it was because you were absolutely trashed by this point, or because you were full of the love of your friends, or because you and Clint had had one long extended moment full of things that didn’t need to be said, and you felt like you were super close to just kissing him because everything was love and amazing and colorful and full of life, but before he could even get to the chorus, you felt the tears start in your eyes, because you knew he was singing it directly TO you, and all of that stuff about his having a crush on you wasn’t just your imagination, it was happening, right here, right now, in real time, and he was using the song to tell you the stuff that you both were too ungraceful to said without booze. He was KILLING IT.

 

Tearfully, you looked over at Rogue, and she was doing the whole, “I’m going to look at the ceiling so I don’t cry” move, but was rapidly losing the battle. Sam and Remy had solemnly clinked their glasses together in an unspoken toast, and by the time Clint made it through the chorus, you were full on ugly crying, Rogue crying right alongside you.

 

When Clint stepped down, that’s when you’d stumbled to your feet, charging him, wrapping him up in a giant hug, bawling and snotting up his shirt about how much you loved him and how he could indeed run to you and he tilted your face up to look into his, and something in your stomach went sideways –

 

“I never knew one person could hold that much puke,” Clint spoke from behind you. “It was like _The Exorcist._ Pretty sure I saw your head spinning.”

 

You turned to face him, your head throbbing and your cheeks red. He looked like you felt, which was absolute hell. There were deep, dark circles under his eyes (well, on top of the bags), his stubble looked dark and unkempt, his hair was all over his head, and his eyes didn't hold their usual sparkle. He was leaning against the bathroom doorframe, the side of his head resting against it. He was bare chested, in sweat pants and barefoot. Well, at least he didn’t look as beat up as the last time he was when you saw him without a shirt. He did have (what you were suspecting) to be his “usual” assortment of bruises, old and new, across his pectorals and abdominals. Looked like he had a baseball sized one on his left arm. That one was new. 

 

Before you could start to explain, he continued. “Everyone freaked out – I mean, it was just this fountain of barf, (your name), EVERYWHERE, but after you puked on me, you started crying harder and apologizing, and then you started laughing because you were crying so hard, and then you puked a little because you were laughing so hard. By the time everything was said and done, we were all laughing, and barf was everywhere. It was a special kind of awful.”

 

_Damn._

 

Could the floor swallow you whole, please?

 

He crouched down beside you, his hand comforting on your back. “I couldn’t let you sleep in vomit covered clothes, but…I wasn’t about to undress you –“

 

_Double damn._

“So Rogue carted you to the shower, got you cleaned up, and I gave her some of my clothes to put you in. And I didn’t want you to die in your sleep so I slept in here with you to keep an eye on you. Sorry if I scared you…Vomit Comet. Or do you like ‘Puke Princess’ better?”

 

_Triple dog goddamn. I’m never going to live this down._

 

You groaned into the toilet. His hand trailed down your back, before setting into a soothing rub. 

 

“Please, just let me die in peace,” you managed to croak out, too embarrassed to even attempt to lift your head from the rim of the toilet. 

 

“It’s okay. You’re my Vomit Comet. And Puke Princess,” and, leaning over you, he kissed the side of your neck, and wrapped his arms around you. You couldn’t help but to lean back, finding comfort in his embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....Watch, I'm going to keep getting these chapters out quickly and then the next part is just going to take forever. Like, omg, I can't believe this section has been so long. Thanks for hanging with me, everyone!


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